Holy Ground
by girlinshipwreck
Summary: Darcie Lee McQueen is trying to stay one step ahead of the dead and the living, when she crosses paths with a crossbow wielding ghost from her past, complicating her life even further. {AU}.
1. Before

****Author's Note: ****_Videos for this story, including characters canon and original, can be found on my Youtube channel under **girlinashipwreck**_

* * *

><p><strong>Before <strong>

_Hittin' walls and gettin' scars  
>Only makes you who you are<em>

"Your momma said you weren't to smoke that shit," Daryl growled as he sat sprawled in front of the television, watching without really watching the cartoon dog running around on the screen.

"Well she ain't exactly here to stop me, is she?" Darcie fired back, tipping the ash of her cigarette into a shoe, Merle's shoe to be precise. It wasn't even noon yet, but everyone was wasted, Merle the most, Daryl the least, her not at all. Her only chemical vice was the one in her hand, a temporary release from the hate in her heart for the life she led, having to survive on her brother's bounty, charity reluctantly given as he cheated others for it.

"Put the fuckin' shoe down, Darcie," her brother snapped from the sofa, his leg bouncing up and down as the mandolin music blared from the television, the cartoon dog now singing, its voice reedy and high.

"He don't need it, I do," Darcie said, retreating to the window, nervous now. When her brother's leg started bouncing up and down like that, it was a warning sign he was going to explode. It was that stupid show that was setting him off, like it always set him off. As soon as the dog started singing, he'd start, his leg going, his fingers curling into claws.

"Let the lil miss have the shoe," Merle said, waving his hand dismissively at her, the primitive grace of his gesture striking a discordant note amongst the ruin of their surroundings.

"What, you gonna walk home in your bare feet?" Daryl asked, scratching his armpit.

"Cours' I am," Merle said loftily, staring at the television with unnerving intensity. "Didn't exactly fly here, did we? Not after you totalled my bike."

"It wasn't my fault, man; it was that bastard from Foley's, just pulled out in front of me..."

As the brothers bickered, Darcie put the shoe down on the window-sill, before taking another long draught of her cigarette again. It was always like this, every day of every week, ever since she'd moved into this shit-hole. Not that where she had been before was anything great. It had just been her and her mother in the trailer, and somehow they'd made it work, scraping by on the little they'd had, her mother working in the down-town bar, Darcie doing a shift here and there as well, on top of her baby-sitting. But then her mother had gotten sick, and everything had changed, lung cancer taking her mother's life, and Darcie's with it.

The trailer got sold, her brother sweet-talking her into the sale of it, the money disappearing into his pockets as he offered her a roof over her head, a home with the only family she had left. Darcie was lonely, heartsick and homeless, and since there had been a spare room going spare after her brother's girlfriend had hit the road, taking their two daughters with her, unable to take his shit anymore, Darcie had moved in, making the biggest mistake of her life. And two years on, she was still here, still wasting what was rest of her life away.

She glanced over at her brother, her lip curling bitterly at the sight of him. For some janky little white guy, he put the fear of God in her. He never did anything with his life beyond getting high and doing drug deals, ruthlessly undercutting his rivals and conning his clients at the same time, supplying them with third-rate pharmacopeia that he somehow still managed to score a profit from. Nobody ever dared to cross him, too scared of getting a knife in their ribs or a bullet between their eyes.

That morning, Merle had come over to score a hit, Daryl trailing sullenly in his wake as usual, dragging two crates of stolen beer behind him, her own brother proceeding to offload his usual watered down wares onto Merle for a pretty price. But because they were so watered down, the high was short-lived, meaning Merle had to buy more, and this was how her brother turned a trade, because it was never enough, and people would keep coming back for more, until they were no more.

Merle had been sitting in that dumpster chair for hours now, swerving between being stoned out of his senses and staying in them. One minute he'd be howling like a wolf, the next he'd be making a pithy remark about the state of the economy, lucid and logical. And all the while, Daryl had just sat there, downing beer after beer, becoming slowly but surely wasted as he watched the television, his eyes becoming blank, blurred. But like his brother, he would have moments of clarity, such as there, calling her out for lighting up, even while he got lit.

She'd known the Dixon brothers since she was knee-high, the two of them seeming like giants to her as they came roaring up the road on their motorbikes, hollering hellos to her mother as she made her way down to Foley's for the night-shift, her son supposedly babysitting Darcie when he was really off causing chaos. Her brother was younger than the Dixon brothers, but the authority and power he wielded over them, Merle in particular, made the age-gap irrelevant.

"That pooch is talkin' to me, baby brother," Merle said, eyes dilating.

"No, it ain't," Daryl mumbled, sipping his beer.

"Yeah it is," Merle insisted, agitated now, all sanity gone. "It's sayin' we gotta go."

"Go where?" Darcie's brother asked, his eyes glinting dangerously.

"Out of Georgia, away from here. The storm is a-comin'."

"What storm?" Darcie asked, curious despite herself.

"The biggest storm you ever seen, lil miss," Merle said mystically, pointing at her with a trembling finger. "That dog is the Messiah, man, he knows all about the End of Days, the Rapture. This ain't holy ground anymore, honey, this is_ hell_."

"No it ain't," Darcie's brother said, watching the cartoon dog do a cartwheel, his fingernails digging into the sofa's arm-rest. "Not while I'm king of this county. Cos o'me, youse all kickin' up roses, gettin' high an' havin' a good time. That ain't hell, that's heaven."

"That _dog_ is the _king_ of this _county_, ma friend, not _you._ He is the _Alpha_ an' the _Omega_" -

- "Stop talkin' about the goddamn dog, alright?" Darcie's brother snapped, starting to crack now, making Darcie feel an uncharacteristic pang of pity for him, at how he was still tortured by what was long gone, her heart twisting in her chest against her will at the sight of him sitting in the same goddamn sofa where he'd sat with his kids, re-living the times he'd spent with them in front of the television, watching the same stupid show with the same stupid cartoon dog all because it had been their favourite programme.

"No I won't," Merle said, shaking his head.

"Yeah, you will."

"No I won't."

"Shurrup Merle," Daryl muttered, "we don't wanna hear anymore of your shit."

"I ain't gonna shurrup," Merle said, standing up, "not when there is truths to be a-told!"

"If you don't shurrup, I'll make you shurrup," Darcie's brother said, getting to his own feet.

"How?"

Her brother showed him how by punching him in the face, Darcie ducking behind the sofa as Merle went flying, crashing against the dresser, Daryl leaping out of his chair and onto her brother, the two of them struggling, Daryl landing blow after blow on her brother's face and body, Darcie crawling across the floor towards them, screaming at them to stop. The next thing she knew, her brother had somehow got Daryl down on the ground, ramming the barrel of his gun against Daryl's temple, making Daryl freeze, Darcie wrapping her arms around her head, unable to believe this was happening.

"I'm gonna kill you bitch," Darcie's brother whispered, his eyes filled with murder, Daryl swallowing hard, trying to stand his ground.

"Don't do this, it ain't worth it," Darcie pleaded.

"It will be worth it," he spat. "I'm gonna show Dixon whose king around here; that it's not some goddamn talkin' dog!"

Darcie just shook her head, tears rolling down her face now.

"Drop the gun, an' we can all be friends again," Merle said from behind them, edging forwards, his own gun trained on Darcie's brother.

"Didn't I just tell you to shurrup!?" Darcie's brother screamed.

"Don't-tell-me-to-shurrup!"

"No, you shurrup when I say you've to shurrup!"

"Try it!"

"Alright, I will!"

"Fine, go ahead, be my guest!"

Darcie's brother fell silent for a moment, brow furrowing as he became lost in thought for a long moment. "First of all, I'm gonna shurrup your brother, then you," he then said, jabbing his finger at Merle.

"Start the show then," Merle shrugged.

"Shurrup Merle!" Daryl bellowed, beads of sweat now breaking on his brow.

"Just put the gun down!" Darcie begged her brother, hysterical now.

He just looked at her, eyes glittering oddly in the pale landscape of his face, before suddenly turning and punching Daryl in the stomach, making him double up, Darcie flinching as Daryl vomited all over the stained carpet. Her brother just stood there, stowing his hand gun down the back of his baggy jeans, lips twitching at the sight of Daryl retching like a cat with a hairball. Then he suddenly burst into manic laughter, slapping Daryl on the back as though it was all just a big joke, Merle lowering his gun, looking confused as Daryl started laughing as well.

"Clean the carpet up, Darcie Lee," her brother said lazily, throwing himself back down onto the sofa, "then get Dixon a beer out o' the fridge. Bastard needs it to settle his stomach."

Darcie just stared incredulously at her brother who ignored her, turning the volume on the television up, Merle sitting back down in his dumpster chair, still looking confused. Then her gaze shifted to Daryl still hunched over on the floor, but he refused to meet her eyes, averting his face away from hers. This was life, even as it led to their deaths.

_No matter how much your heart is aching  
>There is beauty in the breaking<em>


	2. After

**After **

_Take your pride  
>and lift it high<br>I've come to say goodbye_

_You've got your life  
>And I've got mine<br>Sometimes hard to draw that line_

Darcie stared at the stranger in the mirror, taking in the jagged scar that savagely divided her face in half, the greasy blonde hair tied back with a piece of twine and the high rounded cheeks turned haggard by living on the road and all that she'd lost. Then she looked away, shoulders hunching.

It had happened. She was gone. They were all gone. All that was left was the girl in the broken mirror, her eyes like grey flint, her heart a hollow shell. She stooped down, snatching up her machete before striding towards the door, the few tins she'd managed to scavenge rattling together in the ragged rucksack she wore on her back.

She turned into the hall, stepping over what was left of the old woman who had once lived here, trying not to remember the way the head rolled across the floor after she'd hacked it off. The Walker had come out of nowhere, death lending the old woman speed she'd never had in life, nearly ending Darcie's with it. It wasn't often that Darcie let her guard slip, but she did that time, and she knew she couldn't let it happen again. Yet as she headed towards the front door, she wondered if she should just let it happen; that she should just give up and stop fighting the inevitable.

* * *

><p>She stood in the shadow of the trees, hidden by the curve of the hill as she watched the sun rise over the prison in the distance. Darcie had first stumbled across the prison during her headlong flight through Georgia, just after the world had ended, the prison towers almost spiralling into the sky, the ruined facade offset by the wildness of the woods surrounding it. The place had been overrun with the undead, prisoners and prison guards alike, the sight spurring her on in her search for salvation. But there had been no holy ground to be found, and so she'd trod a long road, falling further and further into hell, her soul becoming as black as tar, tainted, tortured.<p>

After her final descent into darkness, Darcie had retraced her route, as though going back could erase what had happened, like it had never existed. In her absence, she'd found things had changed, the prison tamed, inhabited. She'd stood where she stood now, watching the children play amongst the overgrown grass, their shouts and laughter carrying through the air, a sound she'd thought she'd never hear again. Then there had been the rumble of a motorbike engine, resurrecting memories she'd rather forget, so she'd turned and left, fading into the forest.

But she'd found herself being drawn back to the prison time and time again, watching it survive through the seasons, always keeping her distance. Yet as of late, things had started to change, a silence falling over the prison. Once there had been many within its walls, now there was only a few. A flash of movement beyond the fence caught her eye, making her retreat further into the tree line. Even though it was unlikely she would be discovered at this distance, she didn't want to take the chance. She had bitterly learned was better to walk alone and unseen.

* * *

><p>Darcie pushed the door open, wincing as it creaked, announcing her entry like a dinner gong. She waited for a moment, machete half raised, nerves stretched to breaking point. But nothing stirred, all was silent. She stepped into the hallway, closing the door behind her, flinching as it clicked shut.<p>

Moving through the gloomy hall, the bland beige of her surroundings belying the horror of the world outside, she headed for the stairs, taking two at a time, the thought of a warm bed for the night spurring her on. All she had to do was check the house was as clear upstairs as it seemed to be down below, then she'd barricade herself in a bedroom and lose herself in a pill induced sleep.

But when she reached the landing, she hesitated for a moment, feeling the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. Something wasn't right... She turned around, only to be confronted by a series of half open doors. Then she turned around again, heart thudding in her chest now - it hit her from behind, sending her sprawling to the ground, its snarls shattering the silence, fingers almost digging into her flesh as it grabbed her arm.

Darcie caught a glimpse of long greying blonde hair, a ravaged face and white silk pyjamas, before she shoved it off her, scrabbling wildly to her feet as it threw itself at her again. She dived out of the way, the machete slipping from her fingers, complete panic obliterating common sense as she raced towards a closed door at the bottom of the hall. As she drew level with it, she saw there were gouge-marks in the wood, made by rotting fingers. Nearly throwing up, Darcie turned the door handle, but it wouldn't budge.

She glanced over her shoulder, the Walker staggering towards her, cutting off her only escape route. She was utterly and totally cornered. Unless she tried rushing the Walker, she was going to die here, on her own, in a house that wasn't her home. The prospect made Darcie totally lose it. She flung herself the door, making it shake in its frame, her fists pummelling the wood, scraping her knuckles.

"Let me in! Let me in!" she screamed, the Walker almost on top of her.

There was the sound of a bolt being pulled back, and then she was being dragged inside a dark stinking bathroom, the door being slammed and bolted again. As the Walker banged on the door, Darcie backed away from the man and woman before her, colliding with an antique bathtub, stubbing her toe on one of its clawed feet. The man held his hands up, exchanging a frightened glance with the woman.

"It's cool, we're cool," he said, his nasally voice instantly getting on Darcie's last nerve.

"We - we have fruit," the woman said quickly, pulling out a peach from her pocket, holding it out to Darcie who didn't take it.

Instead, Darcie studied the pair, taking in the crumpled pleated fabric of the woman's long skirt, its original apricot colour barely visible through the dirt; the sweat patches staining her grey top and the khaki coloured shirt with its sleeves cut off; the rag she had tied round her head Rambo style, her long brown hair falling across her shoulders in greasy tangled waves. The man had bright blonde hair cut in an odd spiky style, and was wearing an even odder grey fleece hoodie of some kind. They were both young, and both injured, judging by the way the man was now clutching his arm, face scrunched up like he was trying not shout with the pain, the woman leaning against the wall, like she was finding it hard to stand.

"Is this how you've survived so far, by turnin' yourself into a little fruit stall?" Darcie fired at the woman, gripping the edge of the bathtub for support. It had been a long time since she'd spoken to another human being, one that was alive at least.

"We just don't want any trouble," the woman said, still holding out the peach.

"You just saved my ass," Darcie said in disbelief, "why would I give you grief?"

The woman lowered her outstretched hand, exchanging another glance with the man. "Sorry," the woman said, shaking her head to herself, "we're just on edge that's all."

"Who isn't?" Darcie retorted.

Silence.

"See you just met our resident deadie," the man then said, trying and failing to crack a grin as he jerked his head at the now silent door.

"Yeah, it nearly got me," Darcie said stupidly, not sure where this was all going. She didn't do this. She kept away from people, keeping herself to herself instead. She most certainly didn't get locked in bathrooms with complete strangers, making small talk with them.

"Skin-eaters, man, give me the heebies," the man shuddered.

Darcie just nodded, before turning and making for the door.

"Don't!" the woman cried, lunging forward, losing her balance in the process, the man steadying her without a second thought.

"Why not?" Darcie said, her hand on the bolt. "Cos of the geek outside? You've got guns for chrissake. Goddamn use them."

"Please," the woman said, something in her voice making Darcie hesitate against her will.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't open that door," Darcie then said, struggling to control her temper.

"The deadie is one," the man said, wincing as he took a step forward, "but another is my arm. I did somethin' to it in the greenhouse out back. If the shit hits the fan, I can't cover my ass or anyone else's."

"What's wrong with your arm?" Darcie asked, getting drawn in against her will.

"I dunno," the man said, "but haulin' you in here seems to have done more damage than good."

"Oh really?" Darcie said dangerously.

"I can't protect my girl with a busted shoulder," the man snapped, showing the first faint flicker of spirit, "and she can't do much for herself either, not with her leg torn up as it is. We were just gonna hide out here for a few days until I'd healed up a bit before gettin' the hell out of here. I mean, we got enough rations for all three of us, if you wanna join the party, s'long as you don't open that door - not yet anyways."

Darcie just narrowed her eyes.

"No funny shit," she then said from between gritted teeth, wondering if she was losing her mind, "you lay one finger on me, you be joinin' Wonder-Woman out there." For good measure, she flicked back her blue checked shirt so they could see the gun wedged in her waistband. It wasn't loaded but they didn't need to know that.

The man exchanged another frightened glance with the woman. "We ain't into that weird shit," he said nervously, looking at Darcie like she was insane, "so we're all readin' off the same page, sister."

"I ain't much of a book-worm, buddy, but I'll take your word for it," Darcie said grimly, taking a seat on the floor.


	3. Others

**Others **

_"Claimed," he drawled, the moonlight striking his silver hair as he thrust his face into hers, "it's been a while since I had a blonde."_

_"I'm claimin' the lil one," the other leered, chucking Sarah under the chin, laughing as she jerked her head away. _

_"The lil ones don't last long though," another commented, eying Anne avariciously as she struggled to reach her daughter. "You need 'em mature, like a fine wine..."_

_As the men debated amongst themselves, stepping over the bodies of Anne's husband and son to appraise the contents of the small group's supplies, Darcie's eyes met her captor's. He just smirked at her, running his thumb over her cheek, Darcie recoiling from his touch. _

_"Enough of the pleasantries, boys," he said, straightening up, "it's time we took what we came for" - _

Darcie jolted awake, heart thudding in her ears, hand instinctively flying to the gun in her waistband. She lay there for a long moment, staring up at the ceiling, spine stiffening as someone started to softly hum to themselves. As she sat up, it was only to find herself face to face with a hairy bare leg, a tattoo of a compass decorating its shin, feet encased in tasselled brown velour ankle boots teamed with stripy socks. Glancing upwards, it took the dirty apricot shade of the woman's skirt to remind her of where she was, what had happened, making her slump against the bathtub. The woman looked down at Darcie, brow furrowing.

"You alright?" she asked Darcie nervously.

Darcie nodded, swallowing hard.

"I was just trying to fix my hair," the woman confided self-consciously.

Darcie stared at her.

"Yeah, I know, what's the point," the woman said, glancing down at herself. "The world's ended, so why should I care about my split ends, huh?"

Silence.

"How long you two been together then?" Darcie said abruptly, jerking her head at the man curled up in the bathtub, snoring like Father Time.

"Seems like forever," the woman replied after a long pause.

Darcie just nodded again.

"What about you?" the woman pressed.

"Nobody," Darcie replied reluctantly, "just me."

The woman nodded in return, before glancing away, looking like she was mulling something over. "My name's Ana," she said suddenly, shyly.

"Darcie Lee," Darcie said uneasily.

"Whoa, that's a real redneck name, isn't it?" Ana grinned, her whole face lighting up with mirth.

Darcie tensed up.

"Sorry," Ana said, hand flying to her mouth. "I wasn't making fun of you or anything."

Silence.

"How'd you hurt your leg?" Darcie then said, shifting uncomfortably on the spot.

"I was in a refugee centre, way back," Ana said, leaning against the sink for support, "fire broke out. Everyone just started running for the exits and some bozo knocked me down. The next thing I know, it's like there's a herd of elephants trampling over me. But Sam saved me." She smiled at the still snoring Sam, looking at him as though he was Jesus incarnate. "And that was that, and we've been together ever since."

Darcie just nodded for the umpteenth time.

"Your face," Ana said suddenly, gesturing to Darcie's scar, "how did you..."

_"CAROL!" _

* * *

><p>Darcie stood at the top of the stairs, brandishing her machete at the strangers below. After the yell and sound of somebody falling down the stairs, Darcie had flung all caution to the wind, going out to investigate, snatching up her lost machete while she was at it. Now she was locked in a stand-off, the man pointing his Colt Python at her, the grey-haired woman with him clutching a knife by her side, looking ready to strike at the slightest provocation. Neither party was backing down, least of Darcie. She was going to walk out of this house alive.<p>

"Drop the goddamn gun," Darcie said from between gritted teeth.

"Why don't you drop the goddamn machete?" the man parried, teeth equally gritted.

"It's two against one," Darcie spat, discounting Sam and Ana cowering in the bathroom.

"If I wanted to kill you, I woulda done it by now," the man said. "So let's all just lay down our weapons and talk about this."

Darcie hesitated at this, her grip on the machete wavering. One false move and he'd gun her down. He held the advantage. But before she could do anything, Ana stuck her head around the corner of the wall, loose waves of greasy brown hair falling across her face. She held a peach in her hand, Sam behind her, his own hands raised in surrender. Darcie stepped back, resisting the urge to roll her eyes, knowing what was coming next.

"Please, we have fruit," Ana said shakily, holding the peach out almost like an offering.

The man stared at the trio, something that might have been amusement flickering in his grey eyes as he lowered his gun.

* * *

><p>Darcie sat stiffly on the chair, their voices grating on her ears. Introductions had sort of been made, the grey-haired woman who called herself Carol fixing Sam's dislocated shoulder for him. But through it all, Darcie hadn't said a word, keeping silent, watching, waiting. Her eye caught Rick's for the umpteenth time. Her sullen silence had been overshadowed by the other two's exuberant attempts to curry favour with the strangers, but that didn't mean she'd been overlooked. Rick was watching Darcie as much as she was watching him, both identifying each other as the threat.<p>

He was almost as quiet as she was, letting Carol take centre-stage instead. But when Carol's coldness became too pronounced, Rick stepped in, dignified, almost but not quite friendly, keeping a careful distance between him and the others, subtly changing the subject when the conversation turned to the whereabouts of where he and Carol had come from. They obviously had a base nearby, judging by their comparatively well-kempt appearances, but where it was, was obviously something they didn't want to share. And Darcie couldn't help but respect their caution.

"The 'skin-eaters'," Rick was saying, brow furrowing, "we call them Walkers."

Ana and Sam just stared at him, not saying anything in reply to this, Ana's face torn between eagerness and desperation, Sam's mirroring hers. Something like sudden hate exploded in Darcie's heart towards them, remembering their words, _and we found each other_, hating them for finding happiness amongst such horror. Rick exchanged a glance with Carol, his face questioning, hers disapproving, lips pursed as she glanced down at the ground instead. Rick turned from Carol to the others, his gaze travelling over their faces instead, dwelling on Darcie's scarred one the most, before saying with a heavy sigh, "How many Walkers have you killed?"

* * *

><p><em>"We're in a prison eight miles north" - <em>

_- "What, the prison's yours?" Darcie said before she could stop herself. _

_"You know about it?" Rick said, something in his voice sending the tension sky-high in the room. _

_"Yeah, I know about it," Darcie said, narrowing her eyes, "I've known about it for a long time."_

_Rick just nodded, exchanging another look with Carol. "Well, if you come back with us," he said, "we can't guarantee your safety..."_

Darcie shoved some tomatoes into her plastic bag, ripping them from the vine, wondering if she'd lost her mind. What the hell was she doing? Alright, she'd offered to help find food along with the others after hearing about the sick kids back at the prison, but she had to draw the line somewhere. She'd become embroiled with Ana and Sam instead of doing her usual cut and run, and now she was on the radar of those who ran the prison, raising Rick's suspicions with her surly behaviour. Even though she'd told him she was going to be hitting the road after she'd helped him, she sensed he hadn't believed her. He was obviously of the school of thought that you didn't get something for nothing, and in his eyes, Darcie's offer of help would come with a price, despite her denials -

A terrible scream rent the air, making Darcie whirl around. Hastily tying the handles of the plastic bag together and shoving it into her ragged rucksack, she pulled out her machete as she ran, leaving the gloomy confines of the greenhouse behind in her wake. As she crossed the lawn, she slowed to a halt at the sight of the spilled basket of fruit, faltering at the trail of fresh blood darkening the grass. Then another desperate scream tore through the silence, making Darcie's heart stop in her chest.

Sprinting forwards, she made for the white gate dividing the garden from the sidewalk, but as she shoved it open, it caught on something. Machete raised, she glanced down, only to see Ana's leg lying on the ground, her distinctive compass tattoo unmistakeable. Choking down vomit, she raised her head, only to see Ana across the road, lying on the ground, body jerking as several Walkers ripped into her flesh. Darcie took a step back, letting the gate swing shut, tears blurring her eyes. Then she turned and left, booting aside the scattered fruit as she went.

_Why would you run away, I watch you throw away_

_All you had to say_

_Turn away... _

_Why would you run away, with all you saved away _

_Oh if you'd hold on, stand strong _

_Don't hurt yourself to find your way..._


	4. Darlene

**Darlene **

_Before _

Daryl shut the back door quietly behind him, shielding his eyes with his arm against the glare of the dying sun. Darcie didn't turn around as he approached, just taking another long drag of her cigarette, eyes narrowing as she stared out at the sunset. There wasn't much beauty to be found around here, but what little there was, Darcie always took a moment to appreciate it.

"What's on yer mind?" Daryl asked gruffly, finally making Darcie glance up.

To her amusement, he hastily looked away, retreating back into his bunker, barring the world out as usual. Daryl was normally a closed book, always passed over, but now and again he stuck his head above the parapet for the few, such as Darcie.

"I'm just thinkin'," Darcie said, staring out at the sunset again.

" 'bout what?"

"Everythin'," Darcie replied, voice distant, " 'bout where I'm gonna be in twenny years time, probably here at this fence, tryin' to have a smoke, with some snotty-nosed brat clingin' to my leg an' a bozo out back yellin' _Darlene, get your ass in here! The chickens have escaped again!_" She laughed bitterly to herself, before taking another long drag.

"As long as that bozo ain't me," Daryl said darkly, "it sounds all peachy, I guess."

"As if it would be you," Darcie said, rolling her eyes, "I like my men clean."

"What men?" Daryl scoffed. "It's j'st me, Merle, an' your brother aroun', an' we sure as hell don't count."

"Does Billy Ray count?"

"Has that prick been sniffin' aroun' 'ere?" Daryl exploded.

"He might have been," Darcie said, shrugging her shoulder.

"Well, you can j'st tell 'im to piss off," Daryl snarled.

"An' why would I do that?"

"Becos' he's a whorin' piece o' shit, that's what," Daryl spat.

"How would you know?" Darcie mocked. "You live like a goddamn monk."

Daryl flushed hotly and horribly.

"What I do in my spare time is none of your business, Dixon," Darcie then said tiredly, flicking the ash away.

"I is j'st lookin' out for you," Daryl mumbled, tracing a pattern in the dirt with his patched boot.

"Well don't," Darcie said, stubbing out her cigarette.

_It's what it is_  
><em>It's what it was<em>  
><em>It's what it will be here<em>  
><em>After us<em>


End file.
